


rear window

by arbitrarily



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, F/M, FOMO of the Sibling Incest Variety, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Post-Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, Vibrators, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/pseuds/arbitrarily
Summary: If there's one thing Roman's sick of, it's being left out. He's a fucking Roy, too.
Relationships: Kendall Roy/Roman "Romulus" Roy, Kendall Roy/Roman "Romulus" Roy/Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, Kendall Roy/Siobhan "Shiv" Roy
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [lolahaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolahaze/gifts).



“Hey, Happy New Year, you Judas.”

Kendall barely lifts his head, his attention still fixed on his phone. “Yeah, hey, Rome.” Roman snorts, offers his own dismissive, finger-waggling wave before dropping down into one of their mother’s threadbare, literal pain-in-the-ass wingback chairs.

He slings a leg over the arm of the chair. “Good to see you too, asshole,” he mutters. Across from him, Shiv lunges off the sofa to grab for the bottle of scotch set on the coffee table. She doesn't say a word as she settles cross-legged on the rug, which considering her mood, is probably a blessing. Christ, what a crew.

It’s the first time they’ve been in the same room in, what, months? They’ve only communicated through lawyers since they were last together on their father’s yacht. It’s some weird fucking shit to be charged by the hour to have some white-shoe motherfucker tell you that, no, your Benedict Arnold shit-stain of a brother will not be joining the family at the Summer Palace for the Fourth, and, yes, your sister is still in Paris, diddling herself at the Louvre or whatever dilettante fuckery she’s spent the better part of the year getting herself up to. Exile, Connor called it, like he knew a thing or two about that. Yeah; he talks to Connor regularly now, that's how dismal the state of affairs among the heirs apparent has plummeted.

But fucking each other over had the unfortunate side effect of spilling over, i.e., fucking their own mother over, at least where prior promises made were concerned. No one came for Christmas. “Ro-Ro, even you,” she said to him over the phone, her voice laced with more than a little of that vilely cheap white wine she insisted not only on buying in bulk but both drinking and serving. That, and the manipulative arsenic disappointment that came so naturally to her, the only aspect of motherhood, per Shiv, she excelled at. Despite everything (and everything was a Grand Canyon-sized fissure that contained a fucking lifetime’s worth of grievances and resentments), guilt still ranked as the greatest cudgel to be wielded against the Roy children.

And so, by New Year’s Eve, Caroline’s trio of black sheep are assembled, miserably, at her home.

Roman arrived first. Shiv straggled in after, an exhausted gray look to her face that was either jet-lag or a hangover. Both, probably. Roman barely got out the name _Courtney Love_ before the entire palm of Shiv’s hand covered his face. She shoved hard at his nose, relented only to slap him, half-hearted but still sharp, across his cheek.

“Jesus. Fuck you, too, bitch.”

Shiv pushed loose strands of hair behind her ear. She looked past him, down the waiting hall. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “Where’s Mom, let’s get this shit show over with.”

Kendall arrived in equally fine spirits. Mumbling, distracted, “got some real shit happening,” offered by way of explanation, his phone buzzing in his hand. He too pushed past Roman and Roman watched him go, his voice as he answered his phone echoing before that slipped away, too. As uninterested and uninteresting and fucking myopic as he was, Kendall was put-together in a way that brought equal parts relief and something uglier to the surface in Roman.

He'd only seen Kendall through photos, social media, which told him absolutely nothing about how he might actually be doing. They hadn’t spent Thanksgiving together either, obviously. Roman was with their father and with Gerri, their devoted Waystar acolytes gathered around the table, eating turkey and trying to get in good with the top dogs still standing. Per Kendall’s squeaky clean new Instagram (much like the new PR rep Gerri hired Roman, they both were engaged in the humiliating sport of crafting a new and trustworthy image) and the very staged “candid” shot, he had spent it with the kids he often forgot he had. Shiv was MIA. She was traveling. Shiv, Roman now knew, was a fucking mess.

In the few minutes Roman steps away from their mother’s parlor—their father on the phone first, then a follow-up “what the fuck?” conversation with Gerri—and in the brief amount of time Shiv and Kendall were left alone, something went down. Shiv is still seated on the floor, silently glowering into the Baccarat glass her fingers loosely grip. Only melted ice is left and maybe a hint of the scotch she has been studiously guzzling since she stepped through their mother's front door. Kendall is sitting on the floor too, his back against the legs of the chair Roman abandoned, his legs sprawled in front of him as if somebody cut his strings and he'll never be a real boy now. His foot is near enough he could kick Shiv in the knee should the spirit move him. The tension between them is almost tangible now, overshadowed by the threat of violence. Roman knows all too well what that feels like with this family, the trigger just waiting to be pulled. Fucking weird to experience it on the outside though.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, hands braced akimbo on his hips as he stands over the both of them. Their scowls match. How’s that for family?

Kendall turns his phone over in his hand. There’s a glint in his eye, and not for the first time, yet always begrudgingly, Roman considers the possibility that he might actually be dangerous. He might have that potential. Kendall's fingers are spread wide, capable, and again Roman thinks of such mundane things as an open-handed slap to the face, choking on fingers shoved down his throat, petty horny violence, generally.

“You tell Dad we say hi?”

“I didn’t say shit,” Shiv mutters under her breath, her rancor so delightfully over-the-top Roman can’t help but laugh. That earns him, as expected, a squinty-eyed murderous glare.

“Yeah, man. He says may auld acquaintances and all that warm and cozy kiss me at midnight bullshit, bygones be bygones, lower your weapons and come back in from the cold.”

“Sure, sure. Right. And I’m sure I won't find myself beheaded in lieu of hello, yeah?” Jesus, Ken's talking like they’re in some low-rent theater production of some medieval royal saga, actual life or death shit. Which isn’t really fair, because it always does feel that way—actual life or death. But Roman’s not going to think about that; for once he’s the one living, and he intends to enjoy it.

He turns to Shiv. “What d’you say, sis? To the tower with you?”

She lumbers unsteadily to her feet. She pushes her hair off her very pink face. And sounding just like their father, all she says is, “Fuck off.”

The rest of the night passes in a similar hostilities-just-barely-restrained fashion. Well, for Kendall and Shiv. Roman’s on some real king shit right now and he’s above all that.

It’s a real rarity for Roman to be the cream that rose to the top, and he’s fucking loving it. He’s the one with the spot in Logan’s office, he’s the one who gets asked questions about fucking strategy all because Kendall finally figured out how easy it is to stab people in the back and because Shiv’s a limp dick, and it’s, like, suddenly, he’s the General Patton of navigating the moguls down the black diamond to corporate solvency. Or something like that. The point is, he’s someone who matters now, and it’s fucking awesome, people looking to him like he’s somebody.

Kendall and Shiv don’t look at him like that. Instead, they spend the majority of the night looking only—begging sincerest pardon, _glaring_ —at each other.

They snipe their way through dinner and through the cheap cognac Caroline sets out after. Each thing that leaves either mouth is snide, digging remarks aimed to hurt, mean and nasty. They’re fighting the way Roman usually does with Shiv. Not physical, not yet, but Roman entertains himself after they return to the parlor imagining the both of them really getting into it. Ken pulling Shiv’s hair until she shrieks. Shiv trying to crack Kendall’s ribs with her thighs like a goddamn nutcracker. Fighting hard and merciless enough they knock over Mom’s pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree. Like most things that occupy Roman’s imagination, it effortlessly shifts into the pornographic—specifically, Shiv with her hands around Kendall’s neck as he fucks up into her, the both of them fully dressed, the scene that much more vulgar because of it—but it’s here and gone fast enough he doesn’t even go half-chub from it and there isn’t any shame to add an extra layer of frisson.

When midnight at long last tolls, Caroline offers them meager portions of champagne before heading to bed. The bubbles go straight up his nose. Shiv throws her entire glass back in one heady swallow, her throat working fast, cheeks flushed. Kendall barely sips at his.

To the fucking New Year.

It’s still the old year in New York, and as Shiv picks at the label on the bottle of champagne, Roman’s phone starts to buzz.

Roman pulls his phone from his pocket. He lifts it, like Exhibit Fucking A or whatever, and gives it a wag. “The old man cometh,” he says. Shiv and Kendall share an icy look before they both turn to Roman simultaneously, like a pair of fucking conjoined circus freaks. Neither says anything, and that’s fucking weird, too.

“Right,” Roman says, drawing the word long. “So I’ll just, y’know. Take this outside.”

When he comes back, the room is empty. They’re gone. Fuck them.

Every noise carries in this fucking house. Creaking floorboards, whining pipes, each closure of a door snaps like a sharp slap. Roman heads for what Caroline still refers to as the children’s wing. Separate from Caroline’s rooms on the opposite end of the house, there’s a hidden stairway that leads up, accessible through the kitchen. Roman takes it and he can hear the distant murmur of voices as he hits the landing. Shiv’s cuts through, raised and emotional, interrupted by the low rumble of Kendall’s. Interesting. He follows it.

That persistent stink of damp and wet wool is stronger up here. Faded carpets, antiques and knick-knacks scattered about with no view to actual decor but rather instead like a rummage sale premised on imperialist theft. Roman feels like he’s twelve again, skulking around outside of rooms, unwanted and uninvited. Listening. Making himself invisible before anyone else can. He’s, like, 98% sure Kendall and Shiv are too fucked on their own egos, as self-absorbed as the public perception their last name claims, to notice him anyway. And, really, that’s their fucking loss.

Because here’s the thing about Roman everyone forgets: he’s observant as fuck. And he’s never been above a little eavesdropping; what’s some light spycraft among family? 

Shiv’s room is tucked away along the far-side of the house as if a suite. He carefully and silently opens the door that leads into a dead-end hall. He’s met by two doors: one, open more than a crack, leads into her bedroom; the other, also open, to the bathroom catty-corner. Roman is well-adept at navigating this layout. He has a long checkered history of sneaking into her room, fucking with her. One memorable night, they were preteens or teenagers, he can’t fucking remember, but after watching the _Blair Witch Project,_ he snuck in and tried to scare her. Shiv reacted, as she still does to most things, with violence. She lunged up and tackled him down, wrestled him into her bed, her knee digging painfully into the small of his back. He tried to get Grace to recreate that once— _pretend I’m coming in to kill you_ , he said, _but you try to kill me first_ —but she didn’t get it. She told him he needed a new therapist. What he wanted to tell her was that this was him was trying to be better adjusted: he wanted the memory to be assigned to Grace and not his sister. Maybe get rid of some of the ickiness that clung to him each time he jacked off thinking about it. But then, y’know, maybe the ickiness was the point.

In the dark alcove, Roman can hear them clearer now. Kendall’s saying he just wants to talk. Shiv snaps that she doesn’t even want to look at him. Roman feels like he’s missing something, and, god, but he fucking hates that. He missed the first round that sent them both into the ring, and that’s not fair.

He creeps closer, careful to avoid the floorboards in front of Shiv’s room. He can see them now, close enough to the door, shadowed by the hall. Shiv’s drunk, that much is clear. She’s the belligerent kind of drunk, the sort that instigates a bar fight with intent to kill. She’s clumsy, too. She’s bent over, rummaging through her luggage or something, the corner of the bed blocking Roman’s view, and Kendall is standing with his arms folded over his chest, his back to Roman. When she gets up, she’s got her bag in her hand. She snaps her head toward Kendall and tells him to get the fuck out. In the process, she manages to spill her Goyard carryall across the bed. The contents tumble out over the same coverlet that’s on Roman’s own bed—a dingy white, pilled, scratchy, uncomfortable thing, like everything else in this pile of bricks. He can’t really see much—Kendall, as in most things, is in the way—but he can see a crisp clearly unread paperback, a leather wallet, the lit-up screen of her phone, an ugly Hermes scarf he’d bet the price of Tom bought for her, and amidst all that, something hideously tacky and neon bright. Roman bites down on a derisive snort. It looks just like—

Kendall hones right in on it, plucks it up immediately. His face is in profile now and there’s an ugly grin cracking his face open. Shiv hisses, “Don’t,” but she doesn’t make a move towards him.

The vibrator is surprising more so for its ugliness rather than the fact that Shiv owns one. If Roman had to guess which kind of sex toys his sister was into, he’d definitely land on those classy streamlined ones that look like they were designed with the MoMA in mind as opposed to aggressively phallic neon silicone meant to stimulate the G-spot. He certainly wouldn’t have thought she’d buy something so bright pink or cheap looking.

Kendall, maybe thinking the same thing or maybe probably not, turns it over in his hand. Shiv, one knee on the bed, body perched forward as if ready to attack, glares.

“You planned on getting fucked at Mom’s?” False incredulity and mockery both duel it out in Kendall’s tone, and Roman snorts silently.

“If I want to get fucked, when and where and by who the fuck I want—that’s hardly your business.”

Something shifts in Kendall. Roman can’t explain it, but he can see it. Kendall’s shoulders go that much tenser, his grip that much tighter. Difficult to tell if it’s anger or resolve or if one can only exist with the other present too for him.

He leans forward. Kendall, that is. And, well, Roman does too. Ken’s talking too low for Roman to hear, which is annoying as fuck. Shiv scoffs. “Yeah?” she’s saying, and Roman can hear that; thanks, sis, for cranking up the volume. “And what the fuck are you going to do about it?”

Roman frowns. Again—there’s something here that Roman’s not getting. The energy here is totally off, wrong in the way things feel just before something incredibly bad is about to happen. It makes him feel squirmy and uncomfortable, idly turned on and desperate to see what happens next. Eager for shit he thought only lived in his head to become something very close to real.

And sure enough, as if reading his mind—and there’s a thought—Kendall tells their sister to take off her clothes.

“Take off your clothes,” he says, and hello, Fifty Shades of Fucked, but where was that commanding voice in Daddy’s board room? He’ll admit it, but only to himself and barely at that, but Ken’s kinda hot like this. He almost understands every benefit of the doubt he’s ever been afforded in his life: you kinda wanna please him.

Well, unless you’re Shiv. She’d rather please herself. From what Roman can see at the door, her face is tight and closed-off, meeting a challenge stonewalled. It won’t last for long. If there’s anything certain that can be said of the Roys—and, okay, there’s a lot that could be said—it’s that they’re competitive as fuck. They never back down, they only up the ante. If memory serves, that’s exactly how Roman wound up cracking his chin open on the edge of their father’s pool when he was ten.

And just as Roman called it—Shiv doesn’t move until she does. She snatches the vibrator from Kendall’s hand and then she disrobes quick and clinical, all the sexual finesse of a woman at her gynecologist. She leaves her bra on, like some misguided PG-13 stab at modesty. Roman lets his eyes rove over her. She’s not his type at all. Peaches and cream, soft but for who she fundamentally is as a human being, a jiggle to her thighs and her tits under her bra, feminine in an Old World oil painting way, too easy to imagine fingers pressing into yielding flesh. Roman’s only ever liked women built scythe-like skinny, except for when he doesn’t and sometimes he’s not entirely sure he likes women at all. That’s another thought for another time, namely when his sister isn’t settling onto her childhood bed with her legs spread for both her brothers (though, in fairness, only aware of the one) and with a sex toy poised for entrance, the most dour and grim-faced porn imaginable. Fitting, for their mother’s house and the mood of this bedroom better suited for a spinster aunt’s crocheting herself to sleep and/or death than incest-fueled exhibitionist masturbation.

Shiv stays frozen there, with her legs open, the very portrait of a fucking pillow princess, at the edge of irredeemable action. Roman can’t tell if she’s switched the vibrator on; he doesn’t hear anything and he’s listening very hard.

He thinks he knows what she’s waiting for and that’s complicity.

She gets it. Without a word, Kendall reaches for her. Her knee blocks most of Roman’s view, but he thinks that Kendall’s hand is on her wrist. It’s on the end of the vibrator, at the least, because he can hear it when it switches on. Roman holds his breath. He thinks Shiv might be too: she’s gone still and expectant, though, as always, impatient.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” she says, and that’s more than enough for Kendall apparently, because, well. 

Kendall doesn’t lay a hand on her beyond her wrist. He only touches her through the silicone pushing into her. It stupidly reminds Roman of when they were kids, in as sick and twisted a way as you’re gonna get, only it was Roman doing the instigating. Classic middle kid shit, _I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you_. Ken’s not touching her.

There’s a distant buzz as the vibe switches into higher gear. Roman fights the urge to give in to nervous giggles. His eyebrows have retreated up towards his hairline in less shock than amusement. They’re actually going to do this shit. This is something that is actually happening. 

He hears Shiv as she says Kendall’s name. Soft, barely audible—almost sweet and pleading and completely unlike her. It makes something turn over in Roman’s gut, uncomfortable, pleasant because of it. He wonders if they’ve done this before. He’s kinda almost positive they have. He can’t articulate precisely why, but there’s a heavy certainty to the assumption. It’s the thing he’s been poking at since he found them up here. An almost clinical question with its own weight of injury—fucking left out, even from the family fuckfest.

That resentment more or less slips away, tucks itself back away with every other historical family grievance, because Roman can hear Kendall when he tells their sister to get on her knees. His voice is low and almost rumbly, but it carries. And, yeah, that’s definitely fucking hot. He’ll admit it. What’s the point of censoring something like that when someone else is doing worse. And, fuck, in for a penny in for a pound: it’s entirely too easy to imagine what it’d be like if it was Roman that Kendall was bossing around and, no offense or maybe all the fucking offense in the world to Shiv, it’s even hotter.

The vibrator is still in her, bobbing and protruding between her legs awkwardly and obscenely, glistening wet in the low light, as she rearranges herself. There’s nothing vulnerable about her, even like this. Naked. Maybe it’s because she’s bigger than Roman, stronger looking. He can see the tension and the potential in her thighs as she moves. He thinks about them squeezing his face, smothering him. Her bra’s still on, an afterthought, her tits threatening to spill out of it, and that somehow only makes the entire scene, Shiv on her hands and knees, that much more fucking raunchy.

Kendall moves in behind her. His hand covers hers, swatting hers out of the way before he swats her ass. Shiv makes a noise, incredulous and nearly mocking, like the start of a laugh, goading and mean as ever. And, fine, Roman’s super into that, too. He’s not sure which appeals to him more: Shiv looking down at him, making that same noise, but with more to it, snide and disgusted with him. Or is it the thought of Kendall smacking his own ass, hard, harder, hard enough to bruise, to make it difficult to sit the next day. The shame of it, the discomfort, trying to sit down for New Year’s Day luncheon and wriggling in their mother’s hardback wood chairs. Still sore when he returns home, as he sits down with Logan. The potential for shame deepens, widens, almost enough to fill him up.

He watches as Kendall smacks her again, more force behind it this time, and Shiv’s body sways forward. Roman’s never been known for his self-restraint and even less for self-discipline and he has absolutely zero interest in exercising either now. He unzips his pants. He licks the palm of his hand. He grips his cock.

He squeezes himself at the base—how fucking embarrassing would it be to go off that easy and quick?—as Kendall pulls the toy from her, slow enough Shiv says his name again, snappish and impatient. Roman can’t see her cunt, not from this angle, and that sucks. From what he did see, both as she undressed and as she got to her knees, she’s bald there, pussy waxed, but he wants to see the pink of her spread. He wants to see what Kendall sees.

For now, he watches as Kendall fucks her with the vibrator. His pace is intense and the angle of it must be good because Shiv’s started making murder victim noises. The buzz of the toy is muffled by Shiv’s cunt, but even from across the room Roman can hear the speed’s been turned up. Even if he couldn’t, the single sharp, almost offended sound Shiv makes tells him as much. He can see her thighs trembling, the way her hands have curled into the pillows set neatly on the bed. She bows her head, her hair covering her face, and that sucks. He thinks she might panting, he bets she’s red and ugly right now, and he thinks he’d like to see it. Any hope of seeing her face is dashed as Kendall reaches forward. He’s touching her now, between her shoulder blades, not soothing but rather holding her down. His hand rises higher, stopping at the back of her neck. He pushes her face down into the pillows and Shiv makes a smothered noise, deep and rising high in pitch.

Louder even than her are the squelching sounds as Kendall works the vibrator in her; she’s fucking soaked. Roman bites down on a grunt of his own. He moves his hand faster. Shiv’s wet enough her cunt getting fucked is the loudest noise in the room, Kendall’s breathing serving as a softer accompaniment. He’s panting like he’s mid-run, and Roman is tempted, so fucking tempted, to enter the room. He wants to know if her thighs are wet, if she’s dripping. He wants to know why Kendall’s pussying out right now and refusing to use his fingers, his mouth, his actual fucking cock on her. If he needs a real man to provide stage direction, at the very least. Better yet, someone to show him how it should be done.

Watching the two of them, picturing his own hand around Kendall's dick as he guides it inside of Shiv, a dual screen of the real and the desired, Roman gives himself over to that telltale tightening of his body. He's coiled as if ready to spring. He’s going to come, he might even beat Shiv there. Gasping under his breath, he drags his eyes from Shiv’s mostly covered face, down the length of pale body, to where he can see Kendall’s arm as it works between her legs. His gaze travels up, only to be met by Kendall, looking straight at him. Jesus fucking Christ. Roman freezes and Kendall’s face does something terrifying, smug and knowing and encouraging and very nearly fond. He nods, as if he’s offering fucking permission, and who the fuck does he think he is and why does that make Roman’s dick leap in his hand. Why is that nearly enough to push him over the edge.

Tiny gasps trip out of Roman. He’s never been good at being quiet, but he’s pretty fucking sure he could moan and plead to his dick’s content right now and Shiv still wouldn’t hear him. Her entire body is rolling and bucking under Kendall. It's more than enough. With Kendall’s attention still on him, Roman comes, a fucking hair trigger, the delicious horror of being caught, of being seen. Of seeing this. He cups his hand over his dick as he shoots, and ugh, great, he’s got a handful of his own jizz now.

He can barely focus on the both of them in front of him, but he watches as Kendall turns his full attention back to Shiv. Shiv comes with her ass up, Kendall’s grip unforgiving at the back of her neck, keeping her down. Her whining is pressed into the pillow, like she’s begging without the words, suffocating herself, and well, there’s another fantasy for another day right there.

Roman’s pulse is thudding in his ears but he can still hear as the toy is switched off. He can also hear it as Kendall pulls it from her, fucking gross and wet as anything. Shiv’s turned her head, her hair still caught along her face but he can see her open mouth, her eyes closed, breathing heavily. Kendall touches her again, both his hands on her ass. He holds her open, and what the fuck, Ken. Shiv squirms, she makes a low and noncommittal noise. And proving a point Roman dare not name, Kendall looks directly at him again before he drops his gaze back down to Shiv. Roman wonders what she looks like. Wonders how ruined she’d look after taking both their cocks, one after the other. Together. tight and slick, his dick pushing against Ken’s, spreading Shiv wide. Making her take it. If he hadn’t just come his brains out, he’d be right fucking there again already.

Kendall steps back from her, that gaudy pink toy still in his hand. Roman watches as Shiv rolls over, her legs still splayed. Her face is as red as he thought it would be, the same way it gets when she’s furious and fixing to fight. She’s breathing hard still, her chest as pinked as her face, nipples hard and all but visible through her flimsy bra. Her knee is bent and he can’t see her cunt, which, again, disappointing.

Not disappointing, not in the fucking least, is Kendall. Standing over Shiv, staring down at her, he brings the vibrator up to his mouth and he licks it. He cleans it with his tongue. His eyes close half-mast as he takes the head of it into his mouth, a fucked-out look to him even though Shiv’s the one who came. With his free hand, Roman watches as Kendall palms at his dick though his pants.

Shiv says something too low to hear, and fuck her, doesn’t she know she has an audience here? Kendall does. He stills. He drops the vibrator onto the bed beside Shiv.

Shiv laughs and the sound of it carries. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, you fucking coward.”

“Fuck you, Shiv.”

“You already did.”

Kendall stands up a little straighter, his head turned enough that the expression on his face is again one Roman can’t see. In profile, Kendall’s mouth moves but Roman can’t hear him. Whatever it is, it makes Shiv’s face slide into something dark and serious and maybe even hurt. She closes her legs. Doing nothing more than that, she manages to go small. Kendall turns and Roman takes a step back from the door, deeper into the dark alcove.

Kendall shuts the door behind him as he steps out into the hall. The door leading out into the rest of the house is still shut, the light here minimal, a slice of moon visible from the window in Shiv’s bathroom.

“You enjoy yourself, you fucking pervert?”

“You’re one to talk,” Kendall says, his voice flat as anything, absent any surprise.

“Your own sister.” Roman clucks his tongue as he shakes his head. He matches Kendall’s volume, barely over a whisper. “What would the head-shrinkers and Mommy and Daddy and the good American public you’ve conned into thinking you might be something halfway decent and maybe worth a goddamn have to say about that?”

“Our sister.” Kendall ignores the rest.

Roman makes a noise that passes for the muted start of a laugh, but he’s breathless, still. Still turned on in that devastating way that leaves him feeling sick and wrong inside. Kendall’s mouth looks super wet in the low light, his lips full, and Roman can’t decide on which image his fucked brain has conjured for him. He pushes away any that lean towards tenderness and instead latches on to the filthiest. Kendall eating out their sister. Kendall eating her ass. Kendall eating his ass. Kendall with a cock in his mouth, with his. He imagines making him choke.

“You waiting for a performance review before you’re dismissed, is that it? Okay, yes, oh, job well done, minor room for improvement, questionable taste in sexual partners,” and Roman drops the put-on voice, returns to his own, scathing as he can manage even with his heart lodged somewhere in his throat, “you fucking prolapsed asshole of a man. You are…fucked, man. In the fucking head. And let’s not even get started on baby sis you put away wet in there.”

Kendall deliberately eyes Roman’s gleaming hand. Roman’s fingers jerk. It’s tempting to wipe it on his pants; instead, he lets his come dry tacky onto his palm, over his fingers. “I think that speaks for itself, dude. You’re not any different.”

What he means to say, Roman knows, is _you’re not any better_ , and fuck him. Acting on impulse—maybe the same impulse it takes for a man to bend his own sister over, to let his brother watch—Roman lifts his hand. In the space of a breath, Kendall has stepped that much closer. He tells himself he can smell Shiv on him. He brings his hand up to Kendall’s mouth. That’s how it’s always worked in this family—you never back down from a challenge. You escalate, you out-maneuver. You cannot lose.

Kendall opens his mouth, and with his eyes open and fixed on Roman’s face, he tastes his hand. His tongue licks along the flat of his palm then over his knuckles. Threatens to suck at fingers that might tremble more than a little. Roman draws in a sharp breath and makes to take his hand back. Kendall won’t let him; his grip around his wrist is solid. And there it is, confirmation of exactly what Roman has always feared about Kendall—

He really is dangerous.


End file.
